Sensation: The Roads and Hills

WB1000(TL320) 0.15s l F7.2 l ISO 80 l 7.7mm

Fairish moisture evaporating from my breath is evenly dotted in the mood. Two sides of path are alikely stucked on steps I set to. Solicitously, humidity makes collapse the lastest viscosity of soil, inspires him with another sense of life. Leaned back in the clouds that have lost their regular shapes since last summer, I suddenly felt so young taking to heart all those timeless sensations arousing stale reflexes: love, ignorance, sympathetic feeling, protective instinct and a sense of shame. Oh, do the roads continue beyond the town up into the hills ?

S e n s a t i o n

On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass:
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.

I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing:
But endless love will mount in my soul;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,
Through the countryside – as happy as if I were with a woman.

- March 1870, Arthur Rimbaud

Nostalgia For An Early Spring

WB1000(TL320) 2.0s l F7.2 l ISO 80 l 4.3mm

Old leaves are falling down even in springtime. Shadows and remains are lingered in the field where our memories used to push up on the wall of sorrows to get out. Endlessly, little wild birds run away dividing original boundaries of space, to find another excitation that last winter let behind. At the moment of loneliness, vulnerable sensations finally belong to god’s one, to something definitive, but yet useless… While this naturally means a kind of thoughtlessness, I may belong to the volition of my youthfulness.

But tight tides, disabled dissapearings or irreparable ignorance stay continuous. The time and its indifference bring out the ultimate promise in a life. Frustrations become less important than depressions. What I’ve searched on the road is finally understood by a low whisper from the sky. And then only a few words of consolation has been hold. Feels of lack, the slight sign of melancolia tells no more. Thus, I walk on the wall of these shiny days, like a falling bird in the early spring.